Voyages of a Simple Sailor by Roger D. Taylor

Author:Roger D. Taylor [TAYLOR, ROGER D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The FitzRoy Press

10

Sitting there day after day on the hard wooden deck I slowly realised that we were by no means alone. Two burgundy and silver striped pilot fish had adopted us. I became aware of them as they made little forays from under our bilges, grabbing something off the surface with a quick slap then darting back under the ship. I tried to train them by whistling, but they were resolutely unresponsive.

Later, when cruising the Barrier Reef, I found a sucker-fish attached to the hull. Perhaps it too had taken up residence on this Tasman crossing. It was comforting to know we had regular company. We were now a sort of convoy heading north-west to Queensland. I became more self-important as a navigator. These fish were depending on me too.

One day two swallows landed on Roc. They were evidently heading the same way, but were totally exhausted. One perched on my now defunct wind vane. I slipped quietly below and came back on deck with my camera. Slowly I shuffled nearer to the fragile bundle of fluffed out feathers sitting quietly on the vane. It took no notice of me at all. I was finally so close that I couldn’t focus my camera on it. If it had breathed hard it could have fogged up my lens. I took a few shots, using the last of my colour film. I went below again to reload my camera with some black and white film.

Standing with my head out of the companionway I suddenly heard a fluttering close to my ear and felt something on my head. The swallow had landed on my unruly and salty tangle of hair. It was a strange sensation to be six hundred miles offshore with a bird sitting on my head. Nobody will ever believe me, I thought.

Slowly, so as not to disturb my avian head-dress, I leaned forward and slid out a drawer that held a small hand mirror. I held it out in front of my face so that it reflected the swallow. With my other hand holding my camera I took several photographs, pointing the lens into the mirror. Proof for posterity. For a few minutes more we continued our impromptu liaison in statuesque immobility and mutual incomprehension. Then the bird, together with his, or her, mate, flew off, perhaps suicidally, over the sea, driven by their own imperatives to the western horizon.

I naturally assumed that I would have no more St Francis of Assisi moments. How often do wild birds just come and perch on you? A few days later I was out on deck on a very dark night adjusting the tiller when I became aware of a heavy fluttering overhead. In the soft light emanating from my hurricane lamp in the cabin I could just make out the shape of a large seabird hovering over the cockpit, just above my head. On an impulse I held up my forearm and pushed it gently into the bird’s feet. It settled on my arm.

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